


A Fine Blade

by Artemis1000



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Circle Mages, Double Drabble, Elves, Gen, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2019-11-01 07:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/pseuds/Artemis1000
Summary: The making of a mage, an elf, one who would adamantly refuse to be called a hero if she had any say in it. It's not humility, it's just that Neria Surana knows there is nothing heroic about the price you pay for ending a Blight.





	1. A Fine Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Neria Surana had been seven years old when she decided she would grow up to be a Templar. She would rather be the hand wielding the sword than the neck it was put to._
> 
>  
> 
> On strange ambitions, but mostly on destiny's cruel ironies and the makings of an Arcane Warrior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just me trying to break through writer's block toying around with my Surana, for whom I have come up with a ridiculous number of headcanons and backstory.

Neria Surana had been seven years old when she decided she would grow up to be a Templar.

It took her years to understand she had been driven neither by her love for tales and songs – deep down, she had always known the knights in her life were nothing like these – nor by the enchanting sheen of their armors – much as she did grow up to covet with a magpie’s hunger everything that shone and glittered.

No; the answer was far simpler: She would rather be the hand wielding the sword than the neck it was put to.

Neria Surana had been seven years old when she knew deep in her heart she wanted to be that hand and wield that sword.

It took less time to teach her she never would, and teaching her that had been a mistake.

She would have been content, she thought, to be queen of her tiny kingdom. Driven as she was, her mind had been shaped by the Circle, and her world – her dreams – ended at the tower’s walls.

She thought of that girl when she stood clad in plate mail, a sword in her hand and fate holding one to her neck.


	2. Kingdom Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She had been younger then, and far sweeter, when her first kingdom fell._
> 
> Neria has chosen to save the City of Amaranthine at the price of sacrificing Vigil's Keep, and remembers Kinloch Hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was for a 100 word drabble to "when one kingdom falls, another rises." I went off the rails both in length and topic, oops.

She walks through the streets of war-torn Amaranthine, walking past the injured and stepping over human and elven corpses, stepping into puddles of what had been living, breathing darkspawn before her Walking Bombs had turned them into macabre geysers of flesh, bone and blood.

The city looks like Kinloch Hold. It smells like Kinloch Hold. (It doesn’t. She sees and smells it anyway.)

She is still splattered with red and black, just like she was at Kinloch Hold, and like then, the shed blood of those she didn’t kill weighs heavier on her than the blood of those she did kill. The difference is, she feels no regret. She had been younger then, and far sweeter, when her first kingdom fell.

“Very well. Let’s wrap up here. The Mother is next,” she states calmly. Too calmly, going by the uneasy glances the guardsmen exchange. Nobody likes a mage who thrills in killing. They don’t understand a thing. It’s for the better; they would be more frightened if they could hear the screams she keeps trapped in her head.

Vigil’s Keep – is anything left of it? Anyone left?

Neria kneels by a boy half her age, feels for his pulse. “There is no time to return to the Keep. They have survived, or they have not.” She leaves bloody fingerprints on his waxy, cold skin. Death’s cold, like the cold gripping her ever since she made a choice which lives to save.

When she stands, she meets the eyes of Nathaniel, Velanna, Sigrun for the first time since she made her choice – steels herself and decides she won’t care if she reads accusation.

She inhales. Lets herself choke on the smell of death. Exhales.

There will be more death before she is done. More betrayal, maybe. But her kingdom will rise.


	3. Blighted Ducks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wardens, beware Blighted Ducks, for they are cunning and malicious like no other animal in Thedas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 words (making up for my failure to stick to 100 words last week!) written to the prompt of _Codex Entry: Of course, It had to be the Blighted Ducks._

Of course, it had to be Blighted Ducks. Note the capital letters. Who knew duck beaks are made for biting?

Current state of my companions: Zevran’s hair won’t ever be the same again. Alistair has vowed to foreswear roast duck. Shale wants to expand her pigeon extermination plans to ducks.

We have agreed to never speak of this once we rejoin the others. Nobody who hasn’t witnessed this horror for themselves would understand.

Breaking my vow, I must leave a warning to future generations: Wardens, beware Blighted Ducks, for they are cunning and malicious like no other animal in Thedas.

\- Excerpt from the travel journals of Neria Surana, Hero of Ferelden


	4. In the Shadow of Amaranthine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirkwall isn't hers but when she is caught in the Qunari attack, Neria Surana still has to decide if she will help defend it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might expand on this eventually. The prompt was "what if your Warden was the Warden to meet Hawke during the Arishok attack" and yet my Hawke barely shows up. Neria's Amaranthine issues wanted to take over. 
> 
> The rest of it would involve an obscene amount of Walking Bombs and her doing her best to convince Hawke that honorable duels are for suckers, real mages backstab.

The heat of a burning city sears through her, conspiring with the screams of the dead and the dying to plunge her back into another ransacked city.

They aren’t in Kirkwall to get involved. The Wardens have their own mission. But when Neria swings her sword, she doesn’t see a Karasaad; she sees a Hurlock and Kirkwall’s bloody streets have become the City of Amaranthine’s.

 _Taking back the city is simple_ , she had said then, _we just have to kill them all_.

 _This city is mine_ , she had said, _nobody takes what is mine_.

She looks at the Karasaad at her feet, at the blood clinging to her sword. Using it is becoming second nature to her. Weaken them with magic, finish them off with the blade – save your mana for the next foe. There is always another. Always.

In the distance, a high-pitched scream cuts off abruptly.

Neria inhales. The air stinks of smoke and blood – death; it nourishes her. The irony of entropy, which makes you never feel more alive than surrounded by death.

A young woman is looking at her with such hopeful, desperate eyes. She sounds Fereldan. In Ferelden, Neria has somewhat of a reputation for winning unwinnable battles.

She exhales, and reaches into her, cloaking herself first in the sickening taint of Miasma, then the violent throes of the elements. Spirit magic sinks into the corpse at her feet, already withered to a mummified skeleton from her entropy. It stands, hers to command.

Behind her, slightly to her left, Velanna’s Keeper magic flares like an echo. The creak of leather and chainmail betrays Sigrun bracing herself.

“This city isn’t mine,” she says, her voice crisp and cool, “and we are on Warden business that can’t be delayed.” She watches the hope die in the woman’s eyes, feels Velanna and Sigrun’s bewilderment. They have never known her to back down from battles, even – especially – ones that aren’t hers to fight. Alistair is the conscientious one. Neria? She adjusts her grip on Maric’s Blade and tilts her head, knowing well of the effect of fine elven features framed by strands of silver hair, deceptively mild-mannered in the way she regards the woman and her companions. “But there is work to be done.”

“So you will fight with us,” the human more states than asks. Good for her.

Neria smiles, tight-lipped, vicious, and inhales. “Let’s shed some blood.”


	5. Break and Mend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Neria experiences a flicker of rebellion which is quickly snuffed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to the weekly prompt of _"I'm not something you can break and mend until you're satisfied with the product!"_

“I’m not something you can break and mend until you’re satisfied with the product!”

First Enchanter Irving levels a measured look at her. “And what, may I ask, brought this on, young Apprentice Surana?”

His calm, measured words feel like a bucket of ice water.

Suddenly, she is aware of too many eyes and too many ears in the Great Hall, of the careful scrutiny of the Templars - always watching, always waiting but only one danger among many.

 _Never believe that mages are your friends just because you are one_ , Madame Reinette used to tell her. _Don’t be foolish, child. Nobody is your friend just because you are like him._

The First Enchanter isn’t her friend either. Neria has decided years ago that you don’t make First Enchanter by being anyone’s friend but your own.

Her squared shoulders lower, hands curled into fists unclench as she hugs herself, fingers digging into her upper arms instead. “Nothing”, she mutters, eyes downcast. “Forgive me.”

She doesn’t run. She walks calmly as if her outburst had never happened. Normal conversations resume before she makes it through the doors.

Tomorrow, there will be bruises on her arms in the shape of her fingers.


	6. Chaos Is (Not Always) A Ladder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There were unfortunate facts in Neria Surana’s life: One being, she was woefully short. Another being that her favorite figure of speech happened to be, “Can I get you a ladder? So you can get off my back?”
> 
> Somehow, she should have seen it coming that these unfortunate facts would corroborate to unfortunate coincidences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, friend, for giving me ridiculous ideas. I hope you are properly ashamed of yourself.

There were unfortunate facts in Neria Surana’s life: One being, she was woefully short. Another being that her favorite figure of speech happened to be, “Can I get you a ladder? So you can get off my back?”

Somehow, she should have seen it coming that these unfortunate facts would corroborate to unfortunate coincidences.

“Can you get me a ladder, Sigrun?” she asked one day, after the third round of hopping and stretching had failed to let her reach the top shelf in the pantry. “Or tell Nathaniel to get off my back? He’s hidden Alistair’s favorite cheese up there, he can deny it all he likes but I know it was him!”

Another unfortunate fact was that Nathaniel knew her weaknesses and how to take shameless advantage.

Tall people could go hang. It was _unnatural_ , was what it was.

At the other end of the pantry, the dwarf kept rummaging around for candles – who stored candles in the pantry anyway? – as if she hadn’t even heard her.

Neria sent Sigrun dirty looks for the rest of the day but she got Anders to fetch the cheese and thought nothing more of it.

 

“Can I get you a ladder?”

This time, it was Leliana stretching to decorate the statue of Andraste in the Keep’s courtyard with flower garlands.

All she got for her troubles was a hiss of, “That’s not helping, Neria!” which had her wander off, confused and slightly offended.

She had been trying to help, thank you very much. So much for trying to do her duty as a good Andrastean.

 

“Can you get me a ladder?”

It was another day, another awkward dance of hop, stretch, scowl and curse your elvhen _perfectly sensible height_ , as opposed to the grotesque tallness of the humans around you.

“Maker’s balls, Alistair, get me a ladder or I’m going to hex _your_ balls off!”

The shout, if not the words, finally caught his attention, making him look up from folding sheets of colored parchment into flowers with such alarm as if she’d turned into a roaring abomination.

She knew she had to make a ridiculous sight, with a chain of paper lanterns draped over her shoulders. The entire affair was ridiculous but they needed the support of the smallfolk being taxed for the rebuilding of Vigil’s Keep, so they were holding a festival. This was what always happened when Leliana was here. Every time, they ended up with some festivity or other and Neria got roped into near-fatal encounters with the decorations.

Maybe Leliana was the real abomination here.

“Ladder, Alistair! Now!”

“Ladder. Yes. Right.” He scratched the back of his neck, giving her a sheepish grin. “Sorry.” His grin turned even more sheepish. “It’s just, you and the ladder thing… We all tune you out as soon as we hear ladder.”

Oh.

Oh.

 

Another day, another high place she couldn’t reach. Only the venues changed, today it was the library.

“Wynne, could you get me a rope?”

Wynne looked up from her own studies, first at the pile of books on griffins Neria was clutching to her chest with one hand, then at the book on the top shelf she just couldn’t reach. “A rope?” she echoed, doubtful. “Why would you climb a rope when you could just use a ladder?”

She may not know when or how or who, but this was the moment Neria Surana decided she was going to commit a murder – by ladder.


	7. In Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In battle, she is an eerie thing to witness. Yet to Alistair, she is simply "weird."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was: The brush of an arrow flying by, the war cry of an opponent, a harsh bark of laughter, amused.
> 
> The result is me having some more fun with the dialogues from the Violent voice set.

The brush of an arrow flying by makes Alistair start, his eyes automatically searching out Neria to make sure she is unhurt though the arrow had only been vaguely aimed in her direction.

A Hurlock alpha is throwing himself at her with a deafening war cry, the giant rusted claymore he is wielding held high to bring it down over her head.

But of course, Neria is Neria.

She meets the weapon with her shield, laughing harshly even as she has to dig her feet deep into the muddy ground to hold her place. The sickly fog of her miasma cloaks her and she laughs as her opponent, far too close now, inhales it with every breath she takes.

It’s a game Alistair knows well. Neria is the kind of cat that toys with her mice before the kill.

“I love how desperate you are,” she sneers, her face twisted into something ugly, “you’re pathetic. Foolish creature.”

The Hurlock throws himself at her again -  and Alistair, even just watching out of the corner of his eyes while he Shield Bashes his own Genlock opponent, knows exactly what is going to happen a moment before it does.

She swings with her sword and he blocks, but that doesn’t matter, for the moment their swords clash, she releases a Disorient spell. He winces, for all it’s basic it’s a nasty one. The darkspawn fumbles but stubbornly swings his claymore again, more stumbling towards her than anything else. Neria turns silver and translucent and steps forward with purpose, through the Fade, stepping through the blade and the darkspawn both. She materializes behind him, her sword becoming solid just in time to pierce his unguarded back.

She stands over him, perfectly calm at the center of the battlefield, the blue shimmer of an Arcane Shield protecting her as she watches her enemy take his last, gurgling breaths.

Alistair ducks beneath a swing of another blade and brings up his shield, pushing forward again, a quick parry, a slash, a stab – no games for him, only purpose.

When his eyes land on Neria again, she is still watching the Hurlock at her feet. She smiles, satisfied, and sends a pulse of sickly green energy downwards. It finds the Hurlock and he jerkily gets to his feet.

She looks up, meeting Alistair’s eyes, and her smile widens, turning sweet. “It’s a massacre,” she chirps, “and no one’s getting out of it alive!”

Alistair watches her for a moment before he rolls his eyes. “You’re so weird,” he laughs and turns to raise his shield just in time to ward off the next attack.


End file.
